Saturday, July 7, 2012

There was still much to do.
Fen spent the next few weeks at the Guildhall in Vivec, taking care of all the
business she had neglected during her time in Mournhold, finishing by tendering
her resignation as Arch-Mage to Skink-In-Tree’s-Shade.

“The Council will not be
pleased,” he told her earnestly as she handed him the formal letter that had
been written out the day before. “You are the best leader we have had for some
time.”

“I’m hardly ever here,” Fen
told him. “I haven’t attended a single council meeting in Cyrodiil. And I have
Morrowind to look after now. I’m sorry, Skink, but I can’t neglect the Guild
any more.” When this was done, Fen returned to Mournhold, where she helped to
oversee the repair of the Plaza, from which Almalexia’s statue was promptly
removed and the opening into Bamz-Amschend sealed once more.

“There is much we can learn
from the Dwemer that once dwelled beneath Mournhold, Princess,” Effe-Tei said
to her as they stood side-by-side, watching workers lay a heavy stone over the
hole.

“Perhaps,” Fen replied
quietly. “But not now. It will be best if the place is forgotten. For now, at
least.”

After that there were meetings
and conferences, diplomatic relations that Fen began to witness for the first
time in her life. Great House Councilors from Vvardenfell were frequent guests,
greeting Fen with pleasant surprise. She grew used to waking in the morning and
spending most of her day involved in these meetings, so it was a rare thing
when she was finally able to pull away and find a day to return to the grassy
northeastern coast of Vvardenfell.

The sky was a deep, stormy grey, clouds saturated with rain
and bursting to unleash it. But they held fast as Fen moved beneath them, her
hood pulled low over her face, the clay urn cradled in her arms, her cloak
whispering as she slipped through the tall grasses. She raised her head as she
came to the top of a hill, the wind pulling against her cloak and loosening a
few hairs from her braid. The Ahemmusa camp was arrayed below her, the
collection of guar hide yurts that moved slightly in the wind. There were a few
people about, herding in their guar, packing up their work before heading into
their yurts to wait out the storm. Fen hefted the urn into her arms, her face
set, and descended into the camp.

The wooden wind chimes that hung from the awnings clicked
serenely as Fen made her way through the camp, heading for Shani’s yurt. She
ignored the glances from the Ashlanders as she passed them, focusing only on
her goal. She reached the yurt, ducked low, and slipped inside.

Shani was sitting before the firepit, her shaggy red hair
loose around her shoulders, sitting cross-legged as she repaired the fletching on
an arrow. She looked up when Fen entered, and her face brightened.

“Julan – Julan’s – ?” Fen nodded and Shani stepped back,
her hands trembling. She sank to the floor of the yurt, her eyes glistening in
the dimness. Fen knelt down beside her, and Shani let out a cry and buried her
face in her hands.

And so, haltingly, Fen explained what had happened, and it
seemed like they were crouched there for hours, Fen watching silently and
listening to the rain and thunder outside mixing with Shani’s sobs.

After some time, they both sat staring into the fire,
Shani’s eyes bloodshot and her face ruddy with grief.

“We have to tell Mashti,” she whispered. Fen hugged the urn
closer to her chest.

“I know.” Shani got shakily to her feet and donned her
cloak, and they left the warmth of the yurt behind. The sky had grown dark
since Fen had entered, and though the storm was less violent, rain still
showered down and the occasional boom of thunder echoed across the Grasslands.

Without speaking, they began to trek through the slick,
dark grass towards the coast, their heads down, faces hidden beneath their
hoods, the urn cradled in Fen’s arms. The sound of the Sea of Ghosts
grew increasingly louder, and as they neared the shore they saw that its waves
were choppy and reckless, splashing onto the dark, rock-covered sand then being
pulled sharply away again.

Kaushibael camp looked alone and forlorn, the three yurts
huddled against the cliff in the pouring rain. A single lantern hung outside
Mashti’s yurt, throwing a small pool of light onto the sand below. They paused
outside the flap.

“You go in,” Shani muttered, her voice thick. “You should
be the one to tell her. I have to…” she glanced toward Julan’s yurt. “I want to
say goodbye.” Fen tucked the urn under her arm and slipped into Mashti’s tent.
The Dunmer sat silently before her fire, her ragged hair pushed back from her
face, which was tired and worn. For a time, Fen just stood before the flap,
unspeaking, as Mashti stared into the fire. Then, finally, Mashti spoke.

“Sit down, Outlander.” Fen sat, and Mashti turned to face
her, and Fen saw her eyes were heavy with pain. In that instant, it was clear.

“You know.”

“Of course I know,” Mashti spat savagely. “He was my son,
Outlander. My only son. I knew when he was scared, when he was grieving, when
he was elated. My heart told me that. I knew from the moment it happened, when
the visions of his death woke me from my sleep.” Mashti paused, her eyes fierce
with hate. “Your people have minds poisoned by the Imperial filth. You grow
your children as separate entities, as things that are no longer a part of you,
that will live and die away from you.” Mashti closed her eyes. “The Wastes
People, they call us. Savages. But you are the ones that have warped the ways
of the Dunmer, have tainted your lifestyle. To my people, a child is a part of
you and always is. We feel what our children feel, we know when they are in
pain, because our love for them is so fierce.” She shook her head, gazed
wearily into the flames. “You know nothing of love, Outlander.”

“I do,” Fen said softly, and Mashti did not even glance at
her. “I loved your son.”

“You barely knew my son.”

“I knew him better than you think.” The Dunmer said
nothing. “Mashti, please listen to me. Julan knew me better than anyone else. Anyone.” She paused. “What you were
saying…about growing children as a part of you. Julan was a part of me, Mashti.
He was my best friend. He was my brother.” Fen paused. “He taught me about your
people. I was ignorant when I came to Vvardenfell, and Julan changed that.” For
a long time, there was silence. Then Fen lifted the urn and set it down. “I do
not know the proper burial rites for your people,” she said. “But I couldn’t
leave his body in that evil place.” Mashti’s eyes flickered to the urn, then up
to Fen’s face.

“Fen,” she muttered, and Fen realized it was the first time
Mashti had ever called her by name. “Thank you.” Fen nodded, and she silently
stood, knowing that it was her time to go. She spared one final glance at
Mashti, crouched over Julan’s ashes, then slipped out into the rain.

The sea was choppier now, its waves crashing roughly into
the shore then rapidly pulling back again, leaving tiny stones and shells in
their wake. Fen swept the bottom of her cloak over her arm and reached down,
unlacing her boots and stepping out of them. Her toes curled in the wet sand,
and she slowly walked out until she was standing in the foamy surf.

She stared out to the slate-grey sea dotted with the
rounded stones of Azura’s Coast, listening to the rain plummet into the sea and
the thunder echo across the stirring waters. The waves came up again, crashing
around her ankles and chilling them to the bone. She pulled her hood down and
closed her eyes, letting the rain soak into her hair and her face. Fen
remembered the first time she had stood in the waves here, the morning she had
revealed that she was a princess to Julan. She imagined him standing beside her
as the icy water swirled around their ankles, his dark hair clinging to his
face, his crimson eyes narrowed against the rain.

Fen opened her eyes. She stood, once more, alone on the
beach, her hair dripping into her eyes and gooseflesh rising on her legs as the
water crashed over them. Silently, she took several steps back, out of the
surf, and slid her feet back into her boots. She stared out at the darkening
sky, blending seamlessly with the haggard waters, and turned away, raising her
hood over her face and walking, alone, into the storm.